


Light-headed, good

by Ellis_Hendricks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, F/M, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: Even when drunk, all thoughts lead back to Molly Hooper eventually. My take on some missing bits from John and Sherlock's infamous stag night in 'The Sign of Three'. Written really quickly, so apologies if rough around the edges! Hints at future Sherlolly. Mostly just drunken antics. Rated T for language. Originally posted on FF.net





	1. Chapter 1

They tumbled down the stairs and out of the open front door, which was being held for them by…who was he again? Sort of familiar, bland-ish sort of face – but angry, very angry. Why angry?

What was that smell? His nose turned up involuntarily. Sour...wheaty…

"I'll be sending you the cleaning bill, don't you worry!" the man said, apparently aimed at them. At John? What had John done now?

"Pay the bill, John!" Sherlock ordered, vaguely aware that he was waving his hand around. Wait, hang on, that wasn't John – it was a woman. Annnddd…nope. Couldn't place her either. No, wait! Nurse – she was a nurse! Were they outside a hospital? Good, he needed a lie down.

"Over here, Sherlock," came John's voice, which was eventually joined by his face coming into view. No – it had gone again. Wait – was John spinning around or was that him?

"There you are!" Sherlock declared. He slung his arm around John's shoulder, feeling that this might prevent John from going temporarily missing again.

"You're very small, John," Sherlock announced, his arm feeling uncomfortable. "You're…all the way down there. Are you always this small?"

"Standing on the step, Sherlock," John murmured, pointing down. Sherlock's eyes tracked downwards and clocked that…yes, his own feet seemed to be on the door step. With focused concentration, he made it down to terra firma.

"Are you two going to be alright?" a voice asked. Woman's voice. Not Mary, not Mrs Hudson – definitely not Molly.

Hmm…Molly…

"Do you want me to call you a taxi?"

Oh right – yes, the nurse was still there. Tania? Theresa?

Sherlock heard the word 'taxi' and lurched off the kerb into the road, waving his arm. Driving thingys going past, flashy things, red and yellow…whatsits…lights! Headlights!

"Watch out!"

Apparently one of the driving thingys was now right in front of them, Sherlock unclear as to why the nurse – Tessa - there! – was shouting warnings at the driver. Oh, not at the driver – at him?

"C'mon, Sherlock," John said. They seemed to be moving towards the vehicle. "God, you reek!"

"Will you be okay if I let go of your arm, John?"

"You're holding my arm. Pillock."

A face was looking at him from the window of the car – staring, actually. Sherlock tried to deduce the expression but couldn't get past 'bad teeth, hair-line too low'.

"I can smell that one from here," the driver said. "I don't want no-one chucking up in my cab tonight, chief."

"S'fine," Sherlock heard John say. "Got it all out of his system."

"Forty quid up front," the driver replied. "You get it back if you manage to hold it in."

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John rifling around in the pocket of his Belstaff and retrieving his wallet.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, how much have you got in here?"

John handed a sheaf of notes over to the driver, before shoving the wallet back towards him. Back in the pocket – nope, where had it gone? Next to his foot – he could do this. The ground came towards him. Whoa…no, he couldn't do this.

He felt hands hook into his armpits. His first instinct was to fight his assailant, but apparently he wasn't under attack.

"Up, you silly bastard!" growled John. Once on their feet, John shoved the wallet back at him – and somehow it made it back into his pocket.

The next thing he knew, he was in the vehicle - and then his face made contact with the seat fabric. Ugh, musty. Who the hell put those hump things in the middle of the foot-wells? Eventually – and with what felt like an unnecessarily hard shove from John – he made it into an upright position. Doing up the clicky thing was another matter. After several attempts to get the metal thing to connect with the plasticky-metal thing with the red button, Sherlock gave up.

The car lurched forward – so did his stomach. The wave of nausea passed – ha! He'd beaten it!

"John!"

No reply. Through squinting vision, he observed that his friend was asleep.

"John!"

This time he batted him with his arm, which seemed to do the trick.

"Whuh? What the-?"

"What are we doing?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Going home – your home, Baker Street."

"No, John, what are we doing now?" – why couldn't the man answer such a simple question? – "Is this an invest…invos…invol…case?"

John made a snorting noise, apparently laughing at him.

"Wasn't s'posed to be," he replied, his eyes closed again. "S'posed to be stag night."

Sherlock tried to process this information, turning it over in his mind, attempting to see whether it linked to anything tangible in his brain.

"I'm getting married?" he asked. That sounded…odd. But this whole night was a bit confusing.

Again, the same snorting noise from John.

"Er, no, Sherlock. Me, my stag night – Mary, remember?"

Ah, Mary, yes! Wonderful, caring Mary. His friend, Mary.

"Who the hell would you be marrying, Sherlock?" John asked. Apparently this line of thought was amusing to his friend.

"Dunno," he replied, suddenly aware that thoughts usually well-buried in his subconscious seemed to be poking at his brain. "Thought maybe it was Molly?"

"Molly Hooper?"

John was laughing again. Why was he laughing?

"Why are you laughing at Molly?"

"Not laughing at Molly – laughing at you."

Sherlock considered this for a moment. Didn't seem that funny.

"Molly likes me," he heard himself saying. Voice sounded weird – went a bit high at the end. "Thinks I'm interesting. And handsome. Read that blog of hers, ages ago."

"You are handsome," John replied. "You're a handsome man. But also a massive git."

Sherlock waved his hand about.

"Molly doesn't mind," he said. Funny, the more he said her name, the more he had this strange urge – he suddenly wished he could conjure her up in front of him. Sherlock dug into his pocket and triumphantly pulled out his phone. He prodded it. Was it broken? Ah no, the swipey thing. He swiped and something flashed, then disappeared. He cursed under his breath. Looked at John – bloody idiot had dozed off again. What did Mary see in him?

He swiped again. Shit, it was asking him for a passcode. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus – to his utter surprise, and with a sense of victory, a string of four numbers popped into his mind and he stabbed at the keypad.

"Who are you calling?"

John's eyes were still closed.

"Calling Molly."

"Don't call Molly."

"Want to call Molly."

"Sherlock, I'm not letting you drunk-dial Molly Hooper!"

Now that was just offensive. What did John think he was intending?

"Molly worries about me!" he protested.

"Yes, she does – far too much. But you're fine," – there was a pause – "You're not fine, but you'll be fine. Leave her alone."

"Need to tell her the calculations didn't work."

Sherlock paused to congratulate himself on locating the word 'calculations' from his internal hard-drive. He'd enjoyed working out those calculations with Molly. He swiped at the contact list on his phone, the entries whizzing up and down the page making him feel faintly sick again. Where was her name?

"Stop it!" John ordered. "You're not calling her!"

"My phone, John. My pathologist."

"Not your pathologist – give me the phone!"

John made a lunge for the phone, but somehow Sherlock held on to it, pulling his arm as far away from his short-armed friend as he could. But John kept coming.

"Give it to me, Sherlock!"

"Nope!"

"Give it!"

"Won't."

Suddenly, John launched across the vehicle, pinning Sherlock's free hand with one of his and grabbing at the phone with the other.

"Oi!"

Another voice – oh yes, the driver. He was still there.

"Oi! What are you two doing back there? No fighting!"

Sherlock held his phone aloft, and had managed to wriggle his other hand out of John's grasp – so now it was planted firmly against his friend's face in an attempt to overpower him. A string of curse words came out of John's mouth, and Sherlock then felt a knee uncomfortably close to his groin. Oh, right, yes – John had seen serious combat before. Knew a man's weak spots. Not playing fair though. He just wanted to speak to Molly – not speak really, just hear.

"Pack it in, you two, or you're out!" the cabbie yelled again.

"Oh, fuck off!"

"Right, that's it for the pair of you!"

The vehicle screeched to a halt, and suddenly Sherlock's vision changed dramatically. A second ago he had been seated – albeit uncomfortably – but now he was on his back in the foot-well, staring at some empty food containers and what was possibly a pornographic magazine under the passenger's seat. More to the point, he was now bearing the full weight of John Watson, who had come crashing down on top of him. And now John had his bloody phone.


	2. Chapter 2

"Well done, Sherlock."

He didn't reply. He made it a rule not to reply to sarcasm (which always made conversation with Mycroft very difficult).

His arse was cold. They were both sitting on the kerb, exactly where they were turfed out of the cab.

"No idea where we are," John continued. He was using that tone again.

"Phone," Sherlock sighed, holding out his hand.

"You're not calling Molly."

A finger jutted out into Sherlock's face. He rolled his eyes in response – God, what did John take him for?

"Finding out where we are," he explained. It only took three attempts to correctly open the apps map – not bad. "Clerkenwell!" he declared.

"Bollocks," John replied. "No way we can walk from here. Not sure you'll even make it to the corner."

"Mary?" Sherlock asked.

"It's after midnight," John replied. "She'll kill me. And then she'll kill you for letting me get this pissed. I'll be sleeping on the sofa for a week – if I'm lucky."

Sherlock watched the slow process of John getting to his feet. It looked hard, tedious. Suddenly, the prospect of a cold arse didn't seem so bad.

"Get up, Sherlock," John said, sighing.

"What are we…?" his question trailed off.

"Night bus. We've missed the last direct Tube."

It was Sherlock's turn to snort with laughter.

"Neeeew. Not getting the night bus."

"Then not getting home," John told him. He was getting that angry tone.

"I'll call Mycroft," Sherlock offered. It was a terrible idea, he knew that, but it wasn't as though big brother held him in a particularly high regard anyway. "He can send one of his..." – he waved his hand about, feeling for the word – "underlings."

"Thanks, Sherlock, but I'd rather sleep in a skip."

There was a moment of silence, and Sherlock thought he'd better check that John hadn't fallen asleep standing up. Oh – that was an angry face. He looked silly with that face.

Sherlock was wondering whether he should be magnanimous and make an attempt to stand up when flashing blue lights came into view. A police patrol car cruised slowly around the corner and seemed to be coming towards them.

"Oh, fantastic," John groaned. "Great. Just great."

Sherlock didn't feel too good about it either. Just about every officer of the law he'd encountered in life had been a monumental idiot. He'd almost make an exception for Grant, but even he could be a complete dullard.

A window was wound down and a uniform officer leaned out.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the policeman asked.

Sherlock saw John point an accusing finger towards him.

"Got a call from a cabbie who said he'd turfed you out here," the officer continued. "Need a lift?"


	3. Chapter 3

Two minutes later, they were both in the back of the car.

"Coborn Street!" Sherlock called.

He felt the back of John's hand make contact with his arm.

"We're in a police car, you sod. Not a taxi."

Sherlock ignored him. What difference did it make to the police officer where he dropped them off?

Ordinarily, Sherlock would never be caught dead in a patrol car (well, aside from the occasions in life when he hadn't really been given any choice), but this one was actually quite comfortable.

"Coborn Street!" he repeated. "Take the A1208, it's much quicker."

"Sherlock!" John said firmly. "This isn't a cab and…wait – isn't Coborn Street where Molly lives?"

"Yup."

Suddenly the power of speech seemed to abandon his friend.

"We're not going to Molly's!"

"Correction, John – you're not going to Molly's. I'm sure the good officer will let you out at the most convenient bus stop."

He was pleased at how he seemed to be recovering the power of speech and sensible thought.

"No – no! Very bad idea, Sherlock!" John told him.

At that point the police officer piped up, apparently believing that he had a say in this matter.

"Look, am I taking you to your girlfriend's or not, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock scoffed at this.

"Not my girlfriend – my pathologist."

"Whatever. Where does she live?"

Sherlock tried to ignore John, who now had his arms folded and looked very cross indeed.

"Bow."

The police officer laughed at this.

"We're not going all the way out to Bow, mate. I'll drop you somewhere central."

Bloody police. He'd have to have words with Gavin about this.

"Baker Street," John interjected.

Sherlock felt himself frowning at this. Something tickled the back of his mind, something he felt was probably important. It was only when they turned onto the main road to head back into the city that it floated to the surface.

"Keys!" he announced.

"Jesus!"

Apparently, John had dropped off to sleep again.

"I lost my house keys, John. Possibly when that gentleman in the beer garden accosted me."

John groaned.

"God, Sherlock, you are a rubbish drinking companion."

Sherlock watched as John rubbed his eyes dramatically.

"So now what do we do?"

"Coborn Street…?"

"No!"

A loud sigh came from the police officer at the wheel.

"I'm going to make this really easy for you, boys," he said. "I know a place where you can both have a nice lie down and sleep it off."

Neither of them protested. Sherlock felt that whatever was on offer was likely to pale in comparison to Molly's flat.

"Cosy," he mumbled, feeling a heavy drowsiness descending as the car rumbled along the road.

"Hm?"

"Molly…her flat. Cosy. Smells nice…Molly smells nice."

"Yeah, unlike you."

"Bed…comfortable bed. Silly cat duvet. Warm…smells like Molly."

John leaned forward and addressed the police officer.

"Could you put the siren on so we can drown him out?"

"Molly's bed," he repeated, his brain stirring memories that in turn generated a warmth somewhere deep within him. Molly moving around him in her flat. Humming. Tidying. Cooking. Being cross with him, but not really.

"Sherlock, Molly's bed is permanently out of bounds," John said. It sounded like a warning.

Sherlock made a sound that came out as "Pfff!"

"Tom. Remember?"

The warmth in his stomach suddenly evaporated. He remembered.

"Her fiancé?" John continued, always one to labour the point.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the headrest.

"Tall man…" he mumbled. "…boring, funny eyes… surprisingly nice shoes."

"Yeah," John yawned. "Him. Speaking as someone who has a fiancée, I don't think Tom would be very happy to find you anywhere near Molly's bed. So if you care about her, Sherlock, keep to your own bed. Now shut up and let me pass out in peace."


	4. Chapter 4

The place for a 'nice lie down' turned out to be a holding cell. Having both fallen asleep in the patrol car and been awoken by a gentle nudge from a night-stick, neither Sherlock or John cared any longer. The bench was bloody hard, though, and clearly not designed for two. Sherlock had tried to persuade John to sleep on the floor (good for his back), but his friend had stubbornly refused.

John didn't smell as good as Molly. She smelt of lemons. And sometimes vanilla. And formaldehyde – but in a good way. Mostly lemons, though. Strange that he couldn't stop thinking about her now; if he was sober it would bother him, he knew, but now…

"Pretty Molly…"

"Mm?"

"Pretty…smells nice…too nice…"

"Not now, Sherlock," John muttered.

"Eyes…soooo brown and…kind…Breasts not too small – stupid! Stupid thing to say!"

He felt a sharp elbow in his ribs.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, stop talking about Molly Hooper's breasts and go to sleep!"

So he did. He must have done, because the next thing he heard was…

"NOT REALLY!"

Sherlock shot up. Then wished he hadn't – god, what had happened to his head? It felt as though someone had tried to extract his brain through his ear.

Was that Lestrade? Where was John? In fact, while he was at it, where was he?

He still had sufficient brain cells remaining to recognise that this was a police cell and, yes, he remembered it now, it had been his bed for the night. He wobbled out of the cell, his head now feeling like the Helmet of Hell.

A few minutes later, his coat retrieved from the smirking desk sergeant (Graham needed to keep his people in line), Sherlock delved around for his phone. He vaguely felt that he might have done something unfortunate the previous night in the way of telephonic communication. To his relief, it became clear that he hadn't made any calls and, thank god, he hadn't sent any texts to The Woman either.

Instead, one unread text. From Molly. The time stamp read 01:16.

Sherlock's heart started to thud as his finger hovered over the unread message. He willed the events of last night to come back to him, but his pounding head wouldn't co-operate.

He tapped the message.

Er…what? Mx

That was all it said. Which meant it was in response to something…

He scrolled upwards, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

Molly xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx SH

Oh god. He had basically snogged Molly Hooper via text message. And had no memory of doing it.

Suddenly, John was at his shoulder. Sherlock hoped he didn't look as terrible as his friend did, but John's appearance was probably an indication of how catastrophic the previous night had been.

"Come on, Sherlock," John mumbled, his eyes little more than a squint. "Cab's waiting."

He passed Sherlock one of the bottles of water he'd bought from the vending machine in the hall.

"Um, John…" he began in reply. "Can you remember…you know…much about last night?"

John peered at him.

"You vomited…somewhere," he replied. "The rest…might come back to me. Although, to be honest, probably better if it doesn't."

"Mmm," Sherlock said, discovering that even frowning was currently painful. "Quite."

This was good – if John couldn't remember anything incriminating, then it would probably all be fine. Molly knew about the stag night, and that text message could easily be explained away. He'd do it casually, when he was next in the lab.

When they reached the main exit, John stopped. Slowly, he turned around.

"What?" Sherlock asked, suddenly extremely worried.

"Molly Hooper's breasts," he said, his face breaking into a very self-satisfied smile. "Mm. Interesting, Sherlock."

"What?!"

"You kept going on about them while I was trying to get to sleep."

"You must have misheard me, John."

"Sorry, mate, but you were. Very animated on the subject, in fact."

Between the headache from Hades and this conversation, death couldn't come soon enough.

"In vino veritas, eh, Sherlock?" John grinned, as they made their way outside.

Sherlock scowled at him, groping in his jacket for his sunglasses, as the sun was now apparently intent on scorching his feeble retinas.

"In aqua sanitas," he replied miserably, removing the cap from his bottle of water. "I mean, at some point in the next millennia, with any luck."

And with that, the worst stag do in the history of the world came to an end. One thing remained clear, however – John could never know about the text message.

THE END


End file.
